


Stars Out Of The Blue

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Bruises, Falling In Love, Filming, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Evans accidentally kicks Sebastian Stan off a broken helicarrier set on Monday afternoon. It’s the worst moment of his life. Monday <i>evening,</i> however, contains the best moment. Indisputably. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Out Of The Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Stars Out Of The Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377793) by [Sebattini (blueaway)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueaway/pseuds/Sebattini)



> Little things:  
> Title from Dean Martin’s “For You,” because Sebastian Stan is a fan of the Rat Pack era.  
> Blueberries are in fact Sebastian Stan’s favorite. And the line about his childhood is from the same interview in which he offered the memorable quote about having Communism, not comic books, growing up.  
> And, um, Chris Evans has also talked about having anxiety attacks before auditions, in interviews. 
> 
> Extra tiny note on language: I do not speak Romanian, so the occasional line comes courtesy of Google translate with quick actual Google search cross-check; if I've got something wrong, though, let me know! I think the translations for everything are pretty obvious except for the one that's pointedly not, near the end. That one means "you're everything to me," but Sebastian's still a bit shy about saying it.

Chris Evans accidentally kicks Sebastian Stan off a broken helicarrier on Monday afternoon. It’s the worst moment of his life.  
  
Monday evening, however, contains the best moment. Indisputably. Ever.  
  
Except maybe for the following Tuesday morning. Because Tuesday morning Chris wakes up in Sebastian’s bed with dark hair tickling his face and the taste of blueberries on his lips, and it’s all still now and always real.  
  
It happens like this:  
  
Monday afternoon they’re on set in the Los Angeles studio, amid chilly April-snowdrop air and cheerful greenscreen backdrops. They’re running along mock helicarrier struts while trading blows, cameras swinging around to follow; there’re cushions on the floor in case someone slips, though Chris is actually a bit concerned because he’d put a hand on one earlier and it hadn’t had much give. He’d said something, though, so hopefully that’ll end up fixed, and in the meantime they’ll just have to not fall, and they’ve managed not to so far.  
  
Sebastian grins, mask pulled off for a breath and dangling loose. Flips his favorite weighted replica knife into the air. Catches it without looking.  
  
“Show-off,” Chris says, and gets an even wider grin, all conspiratorial delight. “Don’t be jealous.”  
  
“I have a shield.”  
  
“I have a fantastic robot arm.”  
  
“Your fantastic robot arm requires, what, three bottles of lube and four people to get on?”  
  
Sebastian widens extraordinary eyes at him. “Such a magical experience for all involved.” That hint of Eastern Europe curls around the vowels, purrs over r’s and v’s, elongating and sensual. The way it’s faded, worn soft by over a decade in the States, only adds to the allure: mysterious, appearing and disappearing like fraying silk threads in the wind.  
  
Chris swallows. Come back with, “At least I can get out of my costume in under forty-five minutes,” which, okay, not his greatest retort, but he’s distracted by the voice.  
  
Sebastian lifts an eyebrow at him. “And is this tendency toward rapidity a skill that serves you well?”  
  
“You did not,” Chris says, “just go there. You do not want to go there. I can bench-press you. Don’t make me prove it.”  
  
“You probably can.” Sebastian grins again, but with a hint of a blush: he’s likely reconsidered his previous teasing. “Sorry. I won’t ask you about your…rapidity…again.”  
  
That’s something Chris has noticed before, and he’d wondered whether, coming back for the second film, Sebastian more securely a part of the Marvel family, it might change. So far it hasn’t. Sebastian smiles at everyone on set with a contagious sort of thrilled and disbelieving delight, plays along with every practical joke and runs with each innuendo when handed to him, every time—and doesn’t initiate any of that in turn.  
  
Chris has yet to figure out the heart of the reasons why. It’s not reserve or shyness, not precisely; Sebastian isn’t shy when given the opportunity, as just now, to needle him. It’s not a lack of self-esteem, as such, though he thinks something along those lines may be in there; Sebastian has boundless passion about the character and his decisions regarding said character and his hope to do Bucky Barnes justice for the fans, but tends to deflect or divert praise for his performance into discussions of the film. It’s not simple introversion, because Sebastian absolutely lights up when spoken to, when asked to join in drawing whipped-cream happy-faces on Anthony Mackie’s Falcon wings, or when invited with them to the bar at day’s end. And it’s not a language barrier; hell, Sebastian speaks better English than Chris does, the result of, he’d said flippantly, diving very desperately headfirst into American culture upon arrival.  
  
Desperately. Unusual word choice, Chris had thought at the time. Especially for someone so thoughtfully particular with English vocabulary.  
  
Sebastian had said once in an interview, offering a rare allusion to boyhood in a Communist state: of course we weren’t allowed to leave the country.  
  
Of course they _had_. Sebastian and his mother. Somehow. A story Chris doesn’t know. But Sebastian’s _here_.  
  
And has continued smiling at him, though there’s a suggestion of concern behind the smile: starting to worry that maybe Chris is offended in truth, from all the silence. “Sorry, I really didn’t mean—”  
  
“You are _asking_ for me to sneak into your hotel room and duct-tape you to the bed,” Chris jumps in. “Or secretly fill all your water bottles with vodka. Or occupy your trailer with angry chickens.”  
  
“Is this a usual American bonding ritual? _Chickens?”_  
  
“Hey, it could happen. I know a guy.”  
  
Sebastian stares at him, mouth open, and finally just shakes his head. “Chickens.”  
  
“I notice you’re not protesting the vodka one.”  
  
“What do you think’s already in there?”  
  
“Ha. Share, at least.”  
  
“But you drink terrible beer,” Sebastian says, sounding entirely exaggeratedly put-upon, “you have no taste-buds,” and those pale turquoise eyes’re looking happier again, so Chris counts this as a victory, and doesn’t examine too closely the way his own heart flips in response.  
  
“You—”  
  
“Guys! You gonna do this scene, or are we calling your stunt doubles?”  
  
“Sorry!” Sebastian calls down to Joe Russo, the second before Chris can; as he snaps the mask back on, though, their eyes catch. And Sebastian’s smiling.  
  
Unfair, that smile. Not the same way his grins’re unfair, enchantingly wide mouth curved up with beckoning merriment. Smaller, this time. Quieter. Private, and wondering, and oddly wistful, like a widower touching a letter in beloved handwriting, like the secret sweetness of pain.  
  
Chris knows he’s staring. He can’t look away. He’s completely certain he’s intruding—it’s too intimate, that expression, too much laid bare even without context—but he’s lost in it. In those eyes.  
  
Sebastian blushes. Looks away. The moment breaks. And they go off to be super-soldiers, to play their roles.  
  
Chris goes through the motions. His head’s not in it. Back in that smile.  
  
He’s never believed in love at first sight. He’s never believed in the single magic instant of shining truth. He does believe in love, absolutely yes, but he’s always thought it’d come comfortably, like a favorite pair of jeans, not brand-new and crisp but reassuring and molded by time. He’s not the best at metaphor. He’s aware.  
  
He _doesn’t_ fall in love easily. He never has. He’s cared about people, sure. Deeply, even profoundly. But love…  
  
He’s seen friends find each other, watched marriages and partnerships and joyful one-night stands like giddy tempests. He knows that kind of wild intemperate emotion exists, in theory. He’s never felt it himself. He’s started to believe that he just won’t, that that’s who he is, and he’ll marry someone someday who shares his interests and who can stand to be around him and whom he can tolerate in turn, and it’ll be like having a roommate with maybe some bonus sex on the side, and it’ll be good. They’ll be friends.  
  
And he’s just thought the word _enchanting_ about Sebastian Stan’s mouth.  
  
And he’s thinking about texting Sebastian a picture of a chicken just to see him smile.  
  
If there’s ever a good time to have a life-altering epiphany regarding one’s beautiful co-star, the moment just before filming an emotionally brutal fight scene with said co-star is decidedly not it.  
  
Regarding one’s beautiful, infinitely complex, extraordinary, and very male co-star. Oh God.  
  
Chris himself has never, given his now-exploded preconceptions about love, come down on one side or the other of the metaphoric sexuality fence. He prefers an open gate. Has hoped that he’d fall—if he ever did—for the individual person, regardless of gender.  
  
Sebastian _plays_ the lovely young troubled gay boy role to utter perfection on camera. Chris, shellshocked, realizes that he’s got no idea whether Sebastian even is gay, or is just _that_ good.  
  
Hmm. Might’ve been a clue about himself, all those evenings he’s spent hunting down every last scene of Sebastian passionately kissing men, and then obsessively scrutinizing them for…research purposes, he’d rationalized. Learning how his co-star approached any, every, role. Shirtless if possible.  
  
He probably should’ve seen this coming. As it were.  
  
“Chris? Everything all right?” Sebastian’s back to looking worried. And even behind the mask, even concerned, that voice simmers like the definition of sex, lingering lilt catching on the syllable of his name, wrapping around consonants like velvet.  
  
“Fine,” Chris manages, throat inexplicably dry. “I’m fine.”  
  
“All right, then…” I know you’re not, says the tone. But Sebastian doesn’t ask. Won’t push. Won’t assume the intimacy of the question if not wanted.  
  
All at once Chris wants to reach for him. To touch him. To promise: yes, you can, you can ask me anything, anything you want to know, ever…  
  
Anything?  
  
Ever?  
  
Yes.  
  
He takes a breath. Lets it out. Yes.  
  
And then he takes a step closer, over the grey plastic of the mock helicarrier. Bridging the distance he’s just put between them. “I’m sorry.”  
  
The aquamarine pools get bluer with surprise. Chris wonders whether they’re unused to the words; and then shoves away the out-of-left-field spike of anger at the idea. “I’m just distracted. Not your fault. We’re good, we’re gonna be awesome, okay?”  
  
He waits. And Sebastian, after a pair of frozen heartbeats, nods. The thaw’s in his eyes, because the mask’s shrouding that smile, but it’s real. “I’ll share the vodka with you after.”  
  
“Deal,” Chris says, “if you let me buy you dinner, I mean at a real Irish pub, there’s got to be one around here, it’s LA, they’ve got everything.” And the lakewater spirits dance, in those eyes.  
  
Joe shouts, from below, “Find your damn marks, or I swear I’m not letting you two do your own stunts ever again!”  
  
“Shall we,” Sebastian says, and Chris says “Yes,” and he knows he’s saying yes to everything, dinner and the scene and giving his heart away. He doesn’t know whether that’s audible in his voice; but Sebastian’s gaze lingers on his for a second too long before they move. The connection feels like a kiss. And Chris’s heart thumps in his chest.  
  
The first take goes well. No. _Well_ is an understatement. The first take goes spectacularly. So do all the rest. Joe decides halfway through that they need to lose the mask, to see more of Sebastian's face; Chris can't fault that decision. He wants to see more of Sebastian too.

He wants to see Sebastian always.

They do the scene again. And again.

He and Sebastian move together naturally, choreography and chemistry; they fall into perfect sync, fluid and easy, and he knows it’s good, _so_ damn good, and he knows Sebastian knows it too, from the way joyous eyes find his between takes. It’s right. It’s like flying. Together, caught in the moment.  
  
Sebastian’s unequivocally brilliant. Every take’s astonishing, and Chris revels in the challenge. Each of Sebastian’s sparse lines crackles like wildfire, and really they’re almost unnecessary because those eyes’re saying everything, all of Bucky Barnes’ rage and resolve and lost bewilderment and sudden confusing desires…  
  
Chris can only try to keep up, flinging himself into the fray with equal abandon. He’s in awe.  
  
They get six good takes—he knows they’re good, sure of it deep down in his bones, his profession and his heart telling him so. Sebastian knows they’re good too: when Chris glances his way, matching elation’s echoed in his eyes, in sweeping eyelashes, in corner-crinkles, in the tilt of an eyebrow. Like they’ve always been meant to do this, to be right here, on a soundstage together on an April afternoon.  
  
Distracted yet again, Chris nearly misses Joe’s yell of, “Okay, great, one more just to be sure, action!” Sebastian, never anything less than one hundred percent focused, is already moving. Chris moves too, but it’s belated, off by too many beats; the choreography’s wrong, and he rushes the next step along the slanted fake support beam because he’s trying to catch up, and Sebastian’s trying to compensate and anticipate and ends up in just the wrong spot—  
  
Chris’s foot slams squarely into his stomach. Sebastian, airless and shocked, stumbles, loses balance—  
  
—and falls off the beam—  
  
—and hits the cushions below. Hard. No attempt to catch himself.  
  
Chris will remember every horrific detail of that moment forever. The dull impact of his own foot into formerly graceful flesh. The soft gasp of air driven from unsuspecting lungs. The astonishment in blue eyes.  
  
The thud of a body hitting too-firm mats.  
  
He doesn’t remember jumping from the set. Doesn’t register the sharp twist in one knee when he lands badly, when his foot slips over uneven ground.  
  
Sebastian hasn’t moved. Continues to not move. Dreadfully so.  
  
He’s lying on his back—oh, God, he landed on his back, his _spine_ , what if—but his head’s turned away. Dark hair in his eyes.  
  
He’s not breathing. No rise or fall of that chest.  
  
Chris tumbles onto terrified knees beside him. “Sebastian,” someone’s saying, “no, wake up, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” and dimly Chris registers that it’s his own voice, cracking beyond all recognition. No. No. Please.  
  
He reaches out. Helpless. In the background, paramedics’re running, coming over. Joe and Anthony Mackie are sprinting their way.  
  
The world’s frozen. Brittle, trapped on the verge of splintering apart.  
  
Sebastian opens blue eyes, behind the fall of shadowing hair. Tries to breathe. And then the eyes get wider. Panicked.  
  
“Oh God—oh fuck, no, don’t move, just—stay calm, it’s all right, it’ll be all right—” He’s just saying words. He doesn’t know. He’s begging. If he pleads hard enough, the universe might be kind and let it be so. “You’ll be fine, just relax, stay still—”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes close again. His face is white.  
  
There’s no blood, none that Chris can see, but that doesn’t mean anything. Head injuries. Spinal injuries. Sebastian hasn’t moved. Is struggling to inhale.  
  
“Please,” Chris says, and his voice jumps and trembles; he’s got both slack hands in his, holding on, holding _on_ , “I’m here, I’m not letting go, you have to breathe, you have to be here too, I’m not losing you, I can’t, please try, please breathe with me, I’ll breathe with you and I’m not letting you go—”  
  
And Sebastian gasps, coughs, and gulps in air, whole body shuddering with relief.  
  
“Oh thank God,” Chris says, and starts to cry.  
  
Sebastian breathes in. Out. Attempts to say something.  
  
“Don’t—don’t talk—please—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”  
  
“Chris…” Weak, on an exhale; but Sebastian’s moving now, attempting to push himself up on elbows, wincing. “I’m…all right…just…wind knocked out of me…landed wrong…sorry…”  
  
“What—don’t fucking _apologize!_ Christ—and don’t move, wait for help, seriously, do you want to end up in the hospital or—or—” Too many tears. Too many black-painted possibilities. His voice gives up, outnumbered.  
  
“Chris,” Sebastian breathes once more, still rediscovering oxygen; the hands, in his, squeeze back, fingers curling around Chris’s own. “I’m okay. I’m not…hurt…I think. Are you…all right?”  
  
“…me?”  
  
A nod, anxious skyscape gaze fixed on his face. Chris offers futilely, one more time, “I’m so sorry,” and the on-set paramedics finally at last thank God arrive.  
  
They check Sebastian over with professional competent concern. With a fair amount of personal concern as well; everyone _likes_ Sebastian, doubtless far more so than those pale eyes would ever believe. One of the men glares briefly at Chris, though the glare softens after a second. Chris doesn’t know what the doctor’s seeing on his face. Can only imagine.  
  
They run hands over shaken limbs, ask him to wiggle toes and fingers, and eventually to sit up and breathe deeply. Chris offers an arm, sliding behind shoulders. Sebastian makes the attempt.  
  
“Oh— _fut_ —fuck— _acest doare, mama dracului_ —”  
  
Chris, by now comprehensively panicked, demands, “Did you say something about Dracula?!” and snaps his head up to stare at the closest paramedic. If Sebastian’s delirious—if he hit his head, or—  
  
“…what?…no, sorry…ow…” Sebastian stops to breathe. “Something…my grandmother used to…um, mother of a devil, I think you’d say…oh, ow…”  
  
“Don’t try to talk. Not even about Dracula.”  
  
“Now you’re just…saying that on purpose…”  
  
“Bruised ribs,” observes the doctor with the stethoscope, currently shoved under a hastily pulled-aside costume. “At least. Deep breath? Once more?”  
  
Sebastian tries, winces, tries again. Better. He leans into Chris’s shoulder after, though. Chris keeps the arm around him, heart pounding so hard he’s amazed no one else can hear it.  
  
“Any sharp pain? Here?”  
  
“No…not sharp…”  
  
“More dull pain?” They confer. Ask him to sit up without support, to breathe more, to let hands check his neck, his back. Sebastian nods in answer to a few questions. Starts gathering legs under himself, shakily.  
  
Chris lunges over to help. “Don’t get up! Not without me. Where’re we going?”  
  
“I’m okay, they just want to make sure I can stand…” The doctors seem to concur; at least, they’re nodding, handing over pills—pills? Chris’s head is swimming with relief and apprehension, and he’s afraid he’s missed something important—and giving advice about ice and coming in to the hospital as a precaution, scans for anything they’ve missed. Sebastian summons up a smile, takes the drugs, says the thank-you like he means it with entire heart and soul.  
  
“What’d they give you?”  
  
“Painkillers, I think…prescription strength…” Sebastian, despite the words and the determination, has continued leaning on him. Chris swallows. Resolves to be support for as long as those remarkable eyes will ever need.  
  
“Sebs,” Joe says, “we got the shot, we’re good, you’re done for the day, you know? Go to the hospital. Listen to the nice doctors. Go home.”  
  
Sebastian lifts his head from Chris’s shoulder. Chris’s shoulder feels bereft. “Are you sure? I can stay. Keep filming. If you need me.”  
  
Anthony Mackie rolls both eyes at him and says, “They’re offering you a day off, man, just take it, just go,” but his expression asks: are you okay, how bad is it, how can I help?  
  
“I’m really fine,” Sebastian tries, but this protest is betrayed by the flinch in his voice, and subsequently overruled by all the incredulous stares.  
  
“You’ll be fine tomorrow,” Joe announces. “Go. Chris, we need you to stay, especially if he’s going, just a few more close-ups, okay? Big damn hero shots?”  
  
Chris looks at Sebastian. Sebastian essays an experimental breath, and takes more of his own weight. “I’ll be all right.”  
  
He will. Probably. “And I’ll be there. As soon as I’m done. And you’ll be in bed. With ice on that bruise. Make someone bring you ice.”  
  
Sebastian opens his mouth.  
  
“Don’t tell me you can do it yourself. That’s what the personal assistants’re _for_. They _want_ you to use them. Steve told me the other day he was worried because you never ask for anything.”  
  
“I can’t ask—he did?”  
  
“Yes. So don’t make him feel bad.” Short sentences. All he can manage, in the face of the ever-growing knot of exasperation, desire, apprehension, and love that’s taken up residence where his heart used to be.  
  
“Should I tell him I’m sorry, or—”  
  
“What did I just say?”  
  
Sebastian sighs. Mutters something that’s not English, and almost certainly uncomplimentary.  
  
“Dracula again?”  
  
“You don’t want to know…oh, ow, _așteptați un al doilea_ —wait, sorry…” They stop just inside the door. Chris eases him down onto a chair—a director’s chair, but Joe won’t care—and hovers. “Emergency room? Ambulance?”  
  
“No…only out of breath…Chris?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Oh God,” Chris says, heart breaking all over again, “don’t—” and then that aforementioned personal assistant comes running up as if conjured by his name, all wide-eyed anxious eagerness. “Sebastian we have a car for you and also I told the driver to stop at the hospital anyway just in case and I phoned ahead so they’ll be waiting and then they’ll take you back to the hotel and I brought you a pillow!”  
  
They both stare at the pillow. It’s red. And shaggy.  
  
“Ah,” Sebastian ventures, “thank you, Steve. I don’t in fact need to go to a hospital…”  
  
Steve looks dismayed. “You might be hurt! There could be hairline fractures! Internal injuries!”  
  
Chris leans in and murmurs, “Go to the damn hospital.”  
  
“Not you, too…yes, all right. If you think we should. Chris…”  
  
“I’ll see you,” Chris says, supporting him through every agonizing inch of folding into the car, “as soon as I’m done. I’ll want to see X-rays. MRI scans. Everything.”  
  
This gets a flicker of exhausted smile: pain nibbling around the edges, but affection present nonetheless. Chris’s next breath sticks in his throat: Sebastian can smile at him even now. “You can. Yes. _Everything_.”  
  
“Was…that…that was terrible…if you were joking…why are you joking about…”  
  
Sebastian licks lips. Hesitant. Still smiling. Hope like the first tentative glimpse of sunrise in that smile. “Maybe…not joking?”  
  
“Oh,” Chris says, ridiculously, foolishly, aware that he’s probably looking exactly as stunned as he feels, the shockwave of delight only beginning to crest around them, “oh—yes, then—yes—wait, what’re you doing, go to the hospital, stop talking to me, go on, and yes, I mean yes, I mean oh my God…”  
  
“See,” Steve says meaningfully, “Captain America agrees with me,” and shuts the door.  
  
Chris waves even though the car’s got tinted windows. Sebastian, who in fact can’t see him, nevertheless rolls down the window and waves back.  
  
Chris watches until the car’s out of sight. And then takes a few steps back, meaning to sink into that director’s chair; utterly fails to land in the chair at all, and ends up sprawled on his backside on the floor, just inside the studio door.  
  
Anthony Mackie appears, looking down at him. “You are so in love I can see the little cartoon hearts around your head. How’s he doing?”  
  
“Incredible,” Chris announces, and lets his head fall back to rest on the cold studio ground. “Amazing. Miraculous. I’m in love with him and I’ve kicked him so hard he needs to get checked out at a hospital and he waved at me from the car. I’m going to see him later, I’m coming over to his room, oh God, what do I do.”  
  
“Not lying around on the cement floor’d be a good start.”  
  
“Yes, thank you. I think I’m going to throw up on your feet. I might mean that. Used to have anxiety attacks before every audition. This is worse than auditions.”  
  
“You? Captain America? …okay, then. Huh. But, no, man, you just have to remember two things. One, you do not throw up on any part of me ever. Two, that boy’s seriously in love with you. Have you even seen the way he looks at you? Sunshine and rainbows and kitten-whiskers or whatever. Like he thinks you hung the moon. He could say it better. In Russian or Romanian or something, too.”  
  
“I love his voice,” Chris says. “I love him speaking Romanian. Even when I don’t know what he’s saying. I love him. Do you think he’d go out with me?”  
  
“Man, get your ass off the floor,” Anthony sighs, and offers a hand up. “You told him you wanted to come over to his hotel room, and he said yes.”  
  
“He did say yes.”  
  
“Yep. Here, I’ve got your shield. Want to throw it at whoever bought those floor mats?”  
  
“Fuck yes,” Chris says, “as soon as we’re done,” and allows Anthony to pull him to his feet, and resolutely ignores the smirk, and the barrage of photos—Sebastian shirtless, Sebastian in red-carpet body-hugging sleek black suits, Sebastian in a fantasy-realm top hat—that turn up on his phone while he’s ushered through touch-up make-up and wardrobe sessions and back on camera. He can’t think about those photos. Can’t think about Sebastian in a hospital bed, injured and fragile, either. Can’t be distracted. He’s got to finish this scene, got to be Steve Rogers for one last hour of the day, so that he can _go_.  
  
Sebastian _is_ all right. Smiling, breathing, even maybe potentially possibly prospectively flirting with him. No need for the ominous itch subtly creeping down his spine. No need for every muscle to quiver with the need to run back to the hotel and see for himself. He can best help them both by getting the last shots of the day completed, in the artificial haze of the studio light.  
  
An interminable hour-and-a-half of Great Heroic Poses later, Joe proclaims the magical incantation of, “Cut!” Chris throws the shield at him, and sprints for the door.  
  
By the time he makes it out of wardrobe, to the hotel, up the elevator, down the hall, and to the door—that door, _Sebastian’s_ door, oh God—he’s starting to be afraid the anxiety attack’s going to be real. The featureless hotel carpet offers no assistance when his gaze slides to it. The complacent geometric patterns only blur before his eyes, daring him to knock.  
  
He should knock. He’s _here_. And Sebastian’s expecting him. Wants him here.  
  
He’s here and he’s hurt Sebastian once already and he’s never been in love before and what if he fucks it up even more, what if Sebastian looks at him and says thank you for the concern and only wants to be his friend, what if Chris has been horribly misreading that earlier smile, what if—  
  
The door opens. Chris jumps half a foot in the air. Nearly falls over for the second time that day. Way to impress the gorgeous eloquent man on the other side. Fuck.  
  
But Sebastian’s smiling at him. Dressed now in worn and comfortable jeans, a shirt that’s loose and stylish and far too thin to actually be _called_ a shirt, and white sock-toes peeking out from too-long denim. And, yes, smiling.  
  
And somehow that smile catches all the anxiety and soothes it back down. Makes everything secure, cradled in its light. Even the obnoxious hotel carpet gets a little more sociable. Wanting them to be happy, after all.  
  
“Hi,” Sebastian says, right as Chris flails, lost in the smile, “Um, hi.”  
  
Mountain-pool eyes sparkle. Amused lake-fairies in the depths. “You came.”  
  
“Blueberries,” Chris blurts out, and then wants to smack his own forehead, and would, except his hands’re occupied.  
  
And now the eyes look startled. “Pineapple. What’re we playing? Are there rules?”  
  
“I mean I brought you blueberries. Um. Chocolate-covered ones. What they had downstairs. Hotel gift shop. You said you like them. Why’re you standing up? Go lie down!”  
  
“I had to open the door for you…” Sebastian doesn’t argue, though, when Chris grabs his elbow and steers him gently back to the bed. There is at least an icepack tossed onto the side table; from the homemade look of it plus the full ice-bucket, Chris is ninety-nine percent sure Sebastian put it together himself. He bites back the useless arguments—futile, at this point—and focuses on the present instead.  
  
“How bad is it?” He leaves his hand on that arm, sitting down as well. Sebastian hasn’t taken it away. Doesn’t seem to mind being this close to him. “Do you need anything? Where’re your painkillers?”  
  
“Over there.” A wave at the dresser. “I can’t take more for six hours. And thank you. For…remembering. Can I…do you want me to…” One hand’s hovering over the top of the bag, wanting to open it, asking for, God, _permission_ —  
  
“I bought them for you,” Chris forces out through an abruptly tight throat. “Open the fucking blueberries. And don’t try to hand me one until you’ve had at least five.”  
  
That prompts a different smile, self-deprecating, entertained, shy, surprisingly flirtatious. “Three.”  
  
“Four.”  
  
“Fine…I am all right, you know.” Sebastian looks up, though nimble fingertips’re already tugging open the bag. “It’s only bruises. And it’s not your fault.”  
  
Trust the remarkable eyes to see right to the core of those emotions. Everything in Chris’s heart. Which aches, bruises echoed there too. “It is. I was distracted. And I hurt you.”  
  
“And I knew you were, and I tried to keep up. These are delicious. Gift shop? Is this a common food in hotels? Is there more?”  
  
“I’ll buy you every bag they’ve got. Did the hospital do X-rays?” He puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. Nudges him back into comforting pillows. Steve’s ludicrous red monstrosity’s on top. Of course it is; the kid might visit. Sebastian cares. “Can I see?”  
  
“The X-rays? I don’t have copies.” Sebastian nibbles another chocolate-draped blueberry. Licks fingers clean. Chris heroically does not whimper. Made easier by all the claws of concern. “I think Steve kept them; we had to send them to the studio, they wanted to know I wouldn’t sue anyone…it’s fine, I’m fine, they didn’t find anything. Don’t look like that. Only bruised ribs and I think they said impact-related shock to a few vertebrae. Where I landed. I would tell you if it were serious. I promise.”  
  
“Use your icepack.” He picks it up. Hesitates. “Can I…how bad…”  
  
“Oh, I can show you, here, hold this…” Blueberries handed over. Fingers tugging up the billowing shirt. Chris has no time to panic before all that golden skin’s revealed. His heart turns over in his chest. Too many competing emotions. Dizzying.  
  
Sebastian shirtless is purely splendid. That’s inarguable fact, etched in the curve of hips into waist, the lines of rippling muscle, the planes of decadent skin.  
  
Sebastian, right now, is obviously injured. The bruise is large, and vicious, and ugly. Blasphemous, stretching sickeningly violet-blue blots over vulnerable places, stomach and ribs. No bruises visible on his back, but the fallout’s there, from what he’s said. The force of the landing, and trauma to his spine. Not bad. Could’ve been so much worse. But real.  
  
Chris swallows. Wants to look away; wants to apologize forever; wants to make it all never have happened…  
  
“Here,” Sebastian says, and reaches out, takes the blueberries and sets them on the table, takes Chris’s now-unoccupied hand, rests it over his chest. His heart. “Still here.”  
  
One beat. Two. Steady. Swift. Filling up the empty places of the world. Bruised and sore, but alive.  
  
The swiftness isn’t from injury or trepidation. Chris flattens his palm and fingers over the beckoning cadence. Knows that’s true. Every fingertip sings with it: one, two, three, four, five.  
  
“You’re all right,” he breathes, voice hoarse; Sebastian nods. “I’m fine.”  
  
“And…you said…you’d let me buy you dinner…”  
  
“I would. I would like that.” With a blush, blooming unconcealed under guileless skin. “I would—if you don’t mind—I mean, I know I’m not—you don’t know what I’ve done, my first roles, what I did to—and I don’t always know the right English word and I never knew how to ask you if I could kiss you—oh, _la naiba_ , that came out wrong, sorry, I didn’t mean I would’ve asked—I wouldn’t—”  
  
“Why not? What did you just say, by the way?”  
  
“What? Oh…damn…I mean I said damn…well, literally it translates more like hell or the devil…nonspecific somewhat friendlier devil…what do you mean why not, I couldn’t just walk up to you and say—”  
  
“Someday,” Chris interrupts, “you’re going to teach me all your weirdest profanities,” and Sebastian stops talking, takes in his expression, blinks. And the whole damn hotel room, ice-bucket and blueberries and rumpled sheets, chortles with friendly-devil glee.  
  
“Oh,” Sebastian says. “Oh. Ah. Yes?”  
  
“And I want you.” He rubs a thumb deliberately across the soft skin over Sebastian’s heart. Sebastian’s breath catches. Not from injury. “I don’t know everything about you. You’re right. But I want to know. I want to bring you blueberries in bed forever. And hold you when you’re hurt. Or just because I want to, and you want to.” He slides the hand up. Lets it settle around the line of Sebastian’s jaw, cupping his face, thumb skimming a cheek. Sebastian’s lips part, soundless.  
  
“I was more scared than I’ve ever been in my fucking life, today. Watching you fall. I don’t know what I’d’ve done if—I can’t not tell you. I can’t not have tried.”  
  
“Chris,” Sebastian whispers, head tilting slightly into his hand, “you did. Tell me. You said you wouldn’t let go. That you couldn’t lose me. I heard you.”  
  
“You…”  
  
“I liked it.” Blue eyes find his, and remain there. “I like it. Present tense. In English. I like you. Can I ask whether I can kiss you?”  
  
“You can kiss me without having to ask,” Chris says, “please,” and Sebastian leans closer and Chris’s hand slips to the back of his head, tangling in dark hair; their lips come together and the world dissolves in blueberries and heat and the faint smudge of unremoved eyeliner at Sebastian’s left eye and the meeting of mouths.  
  
Chris doesn’t make any demands. No pressure. Sebastian’s still battered and bruised and on painkillers, no matter how enthusiastically that tongue sweeps across Chris’s lower lip and teases every last inch of his mouth. The kiss is perfect, anyway, just as it is.  
  
He pulls back, aeons of joy having passed while they weren’t looking. Somehow they’ve tipped back into the bed, himself mostly atop Sebastian, who’s lying amid pillows like the embodiment of temptation, all wet lips and shining eyes and bare skin and one leg sneaking up to wrap around Chris’s waist. There’s a new mark sucked into his collarbone, pink and vivid; Chris’s mouth has memorized the flavor of his skin.  
  
“You,” Sebastian murmurs, lazily. “ _Sunteti sunt frumoase_. Lovely.”  
  
Chris has to laugh. “You could be saying anything. Insulting my kissing skills. Telling me I have disgusting breath. Comparing me to my dog.”  
  
“I called you beautiful. _Tu esti totul meu…”_  
  
“Now you’re making up words. Are you going to translate that one? And are you all right?” He brushes long hair away from one startled but not unappreciative winter-blue eye. Marvels at the gesture. He _can_. “You should rest.”  
  
“I’m all right…maybe a bit tired…will you hold me?” Sebastian doesn’t physically glance away, making the request, but it’s audible in his voice. “Hospitals…I’ve never liked them. I’m sorry.”  
  
There’s a story there. Chris doesn’t prod the scar for more detail. They’ll have time. He knows they will. “I’d’ve come with you. Next time. Every next time. Not that there should _be_ a next time. And of course yes. And you’re really not going to tell me what you said?”  
  
“Maybe later.” Sebastian runs a hand along his arm, up a bicep. Chris feels the tingle all the way down. Head to toes. Drops of molten gold. “Definitely later. Not now. Not yet.”  
  
“You said later,” Chris says, “you want to see me, later,” and Sebastian puts on a strategically wide-eyed hopeful expression, stretched out beneath him among the pillow-fluff. Steve’s horrendous scarlet beast has ended up on the floor, and is eyeing them meaningfully. “I want you to spend the night. I want to see you in the morning. Which is later. Yes.”  
  
“Yes,” Chris agrees, kissing him again, kissing him everywhere. “Yes.” The blueberries, from their side-table, approve.  
  
Tuesday morning, Chris awakens curled around elegant exotic warmth, the solid muscles and messy dark hair of the man whose bed he’s sharing. Sebastian’s only an inch or so shorter than he is, but slimmer; they fit together the way they work together, seamless, flawless, falling into each other. He presses a kiss to the back of that neck, one visible spot through all the hair. Sebastian tastes like cotton sheets and sleepy body heat and himself, some indefinable enticing spiced-sweet rarity. Chris licks his lips; touches his tongue gently to that spot again, enraptured.  
  
Sebastian stirs, yawns, makes a sleepy-kitten sound of interest. Not a domestic kitten, though; Chris considers possibilities for a few seconds. Something more uncommon. Unusual. A long-legged skittish serval. A lynx, with those swiveling ears.  
  
“What _are_ you thinking about? You’re laughing.”  
  
“Nothing…never mind…go back to sleep. You need to recover.”  
  
“I am recovered. Did you say something about my ears?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Hmm.” Sebastian rolls over to face him. Nose to nose. Breaths mingling in April-morning light. “Good morning. _Bună dimineața._ I do like waking up with you in my bed. Did I kick you?”  
  
“No.” In fact, Sebastian’s a quiet sleeper. No restless attention-drawing motions at all. “I like waking up with you, too. How’re you feeling? I mean seriously.”  
  
“Seriously…I think I’m all right.” Sebastian stretches, winces, swears in a few different languages. “Sore. But I’ll live.”  
  
“Good.” He tucks long limbs and dark hair back into his arms. Protective. Tender. Sebastian doesn’t object, only puts his head on Chris’s shoulder.  “Good.”   
  
Sebastian’s breathing softly, steadily, unhurriedly, against his bare chest. They’d both ended up shirtless, though only that, the night before. No expectations. No rush. Not in light of those inadvertent hints at other more ominous stories. Whatever, whenever, Sebastian wants to tell him, Chris will be here. He’ll always want to be right here.  
  
Between one breath and the next, not even aware he’s going to say the words until they fall out, he whispers, “I love you.”  
  
Stillness. Silence. The world quivers in blank-faced surprise.  
  
But only for a moment. Sebastian tips that head up, smiles—a glorious, unguarded smile—and dives forward and kisses him soundly, breathlessly, laughing. Gets out, sealing the words with more kisses, pressed into Chris’s lips, drawn into every inhale, “ _Te iubesc,_ yes, of course, always.”  
  
“That…oh God do that again, with your tongue—that does mean—you did say—you did say it, right, because— _oh_ —”  
  
Sebastian pauses between moments of doing _that_ , eyes radiant, lips full of newfound playful happiness. Chris’s heart cracks with helpless love and longing: too much overflowing elation to contain. He waits, mute in the face of imminent deliverance.  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian says. “I did say it. I love you, too, Chris Evans. In every language I know. I love you.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stars Out Of The Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677685) by [Christoph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christoph/pseuds/Christoph), [WTFStarbucks2016](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTFStarbucks2016/pseuds/WTFStarbucks2016)




End file.
